Synchronicity
by FoxyBoxy
Summary: With every breath you take. Every smile you make. I cannot help but be drawn to you. [Lena x Emily fic, with dashes of WidowTracer, although second pairing is heavily one sided] Neo-Noir style story.
1. Red

**Red**

The music of the coming rain did nothing to stall the blaring noises coming from outdoors. Blinding, never ending car light trails litter the roads, large blobs of light constantly slithering at a fast pace under the watchful smog filtered eye of the cityscape's horizon. Loud horns insistingly piercing through nearby ears, all impatient drivers wanting to reach home to their beloveds or close the door to the empty hallways of their pocket draining four walls. The midnight symphony could've been part of a lullaby any other time.

But not for me.

During these dark hours, everything is a hassle. Drinking. Breathing.

I should be asleep now. Without a care in the world.

My eyes are howling for some rest. Yet... I resist. Respite provides only a momentary sense of comfort.

These nights are too short for people like me.

I close my eyes, taking in another drag. It's been too long since I had any motivation to do anything.

Right or wrong.

35mm colour film. It was old fashioned. Very rare to procure, figures to own.

Leaving the burnt filter to die out in the ashtray, I push myself to place the back of my skull flat on the edge of my spine, waiting for the enlarger to turn on the light. Every day, every night, the darkroom in my shit apartment keeps getting filled with more negatives. More reels of ancient, highly flammable film, hang in labelled containers piled in the reachable shelves of the cupboard for further use. Steel cold tongs were methodically arranged onto cropped, guillotined printed paper in colder water. Every step, every move, every single day, moving the new picture until it developed completely under the warm red tones of the room's safe light.

All I could see was red.

Red.

Before taking the job, I never knew Red in my life. She seems like a sweet girl. Always surrounded by friends.

Always with a wonderful smile matching the brightness of her hair, the only colour that stood out in my vision of sight.

Even through the blackest ink, the colour is always there, making my hand and resolve falter every time, every night.

It would be wishful thinking to believe this was just a job.

And it is.

* * *

There was another woman once. I was still green, still fresh faced.

The distant memory makes me wistful and regretful, wanting to drown the vision down with numbing liquor.

I still remember the calm winds hovering above the sea and deck, vividly pale rays of a full moon simply not doing enough to compliment a woman dressed in white, standing by the bow of the ship. A gust of wind made her turn, anxiety forming on her brow, until she recognised who was now beside her.

Everything melted away, as the one she was waiting for turned all the heavy tension upon her shoulders into a wordless smile, happiness resting on her heart shaped lips, her opulent brows. I remember her gently taking a hand, a beautiful face covered with an expression filled with wonder and uncertainty, as she was drifted into a silent dance promising to keep the light shining in the darkest nights.

My hand was on the hostler, facing towards the flickering lights of the feast's decorations and guests.

Being aware of the newlyweds sharing a tender moment between them, having tied the knot in the middle of the ocean.

The joining of the established families Guillard and Lacroix was a union not approved by everyone.

But to the joy of the two people behind me, that did not matter.

They felt safe with me around.

They should have. I was Gerard Lacroix's main machine gunner. His favourite racketeer, if you will.

It was a rare thing to see him smile. It was rarer to see a man like him cry.

I understood. His tears fell with the notion of finding someone who could complete him, who could share the ups and downs of everyday life. Someone to endure the encompassing blues and make them pass, strengthening each other to incomparable heights.

Not everyone is as lucky.

My tears were hidden under the pretension of joy, layered beneath the pain of a thousand knives.

I was only green.

I was a natural in this line of work. It is how I got here.

It did not make me feel less than a fool.

Screams filled the deck. Through the confusion, bullets started to be ejected towards us. Distracted by my own misery, I was too fast to push the trigger, too distracted to look back.

A horrible scream filled my mind, echos in my ears and claws deep into my nightmares every night I attempt to shut eye. A stray shell had landed into the bride's abdomen, making her lean back out of reflex, hoping to find some support against the ship's cool iron barriers.

I run towards her. Gerard does the same. Two hands reach out for one, desperate to keep a shared love away from the greedy, uncaring chains of death. Gerard bellows a scream, more hard edged than mine. He was shot in the back. A jolt of pain hits my hip, making me reel in agony. Another bullet had buried itself into my body, blinding my sight, halting the reach of my hand.

The ringing sound of her scream still twists the sight of the full moon every night, making me see her descending form fall into a white reflection of the vast seas, forever disappearing from any perception of sight.

Gerard was more daring. Instantly removing his wedding coat and boots, both drenched in his own blood, he dived into the water, desperately wanting to save the woman of his life. Screaming her name and his, I could not believe what had just happened.

I had accepted I was garbage. A complete, utter failure. Though I loved her, I had to keep my thoughts in the past tense.

I had to. Unlike Gerard, I have a name not worth remembering.

I had accepted Gerard was perfect for Amelie. For her, him. Even if I met her before, I stood no chance.

It would've been folly to even try.

Gritting my teeth, I busted through all who turned the quiet wedding union from heaven to hell ruthlessly. One by one. Against all odds, **I** stood above rivers of blood. But in my desperation, I missed the last pistol. My chest burst into pieces, a shell going through flesh and bone, blowing a hole where my heart should be.

As I fell, the world turned upside down. The sea became my sky. Water replaced air, filling in my lungs.

I did not dare to fight death.

It is what I deserve.

* * *

They never found the body.

They found Gerard days after. Barely alive, barely human.

His humanity is in the past, forever gone. Gone with the loss of his beloved wife. Gerard has not smiled since that night. He goes by a different name now.

As for me...

To the world, I was dead. An urban legend walking amongst the shadows.

I still breathe. I assure you, these are not the words of a ghost. You are not going mad.

I check sometimes.

However. How am I talking to you if my heart had been torn into smithereens in the heat of the crossfire that painful night? This gaping hole... where my heart should be. It is powered by technological advances my non academic brain can understand with an "electronically charged" replacement. I call it the zapper. It does that when it reaches its lowest limits. Makes me feel I'm blinking and returning from the space of time. Sometimes I do it on purpose. Just to feel something.

For the doctors who saved Maximilien, that's the name my former employer goes by now, had also saved me. He owed me that much, he told me. But he also told me to skip town the day I was clinically dismissed.

Never to return to France again. One step back, and his men would mow me down in an instant.

And here I am. Back to the start. Back to the roots of my esteemed career. The billboard is full now.

Full of photos of a woman called Emily Lindholm Oats.

Even her name pains me.

Lindholm. _Lindholm_. The goddamned Swedish mafia. Of all factions she had to get indirectly involved with.

Guess who is on the payroll of the Bartalottis, the Lindholm family's most loathed rivals in the biz. Yes. Antonio is my current boss. Like the times I snapped rapid shots from the camera lens, Red was unaware she was related to the mob, even through her uncle. Ignoring the rain finally tinkling down upon dry streets and plant life outside my property, if you can call a hole property, I keep staring at all those photos.

Red is still smiling.

I'm back at the start. What have I gotten myself into?


	2. Rules

**Rules**

There were three golden rules in my former career ladder. Three rules I had to abide by.

Never let your guard down.

Never let your mark out of sight.

Never fall in love.

I stood by one rule. Fell apart from the rest.

The dark shadow of the one woman who could never be mine taunted my concious again, an outstretched hand beckoning to join her in death.

It was winter. I took the trouble of paying out of my own pocket to reach the grey stained shores of Venice. Somehow, Antonio found out I was still alive. And in need of cash. Water was drumming hard outside. Venezia attracted tourists like a flesh eater would lure insects to their deadly clutches during these stormy, rain-drenched skies. Now that the carnevale season was officially over, the time to worry about overcrowding the pigeon infested pavements was in the rear of the local's minds. The town piazza, San Marco locals call it, was deserted during these winter nights. So, some good came out of it. My mind really needed some peace and quiet.

The waters surrounding the piers did not reach waist high at this hour, but I was mentally prepared for a boat ride.

This is Venice we're talking about.

Out of boredom, I stole a ripe narasa from a public tree, hanging high enough to be cleansed by the rain, but not low enough for stray animals to pee on. I waited for Antonio's main mug to show up in his name. He did. Dressed in a bright Venetian roso shaded suit, he emerged alone from the parked camion, daring anyone to attack him. I certainly did not want to anger my potential money printer. My stomach rumbled in protest, having not taken anything since this cold morning.

I carefully peeled off the orange, thick pitted rinds revealing a citrus scent, the bitter fruit appeased my taste buds for a moment.

Hunger or no hunger, I had to eat. Legend or not, the rent had to be paid.

"Bad weather huh?"

He was testing me. His English accent was good, making a mockery of the usual Italian stereotype. I continued.

"I went through a lot worse. This is nothing. Are you waiting for someone?"

He laughed, visibly grateful I did not attempt to imitate a Venetian accent.

"Yeah. My lift. They had to come for me tonight. Bastardi are already an hour late. This stupid coffee has gone cold. Maledetta Costa..."

That's not true. If anything **he** was late. 'Va tranquillo, c'e pago mi, tafone.'

His eyes widened a little, taking in a short breath. I guess he did not expect I, a short, lean, scrawny stranger was the one Antonio was looking for. And that I was alone. Slowly removing his flat cap, he completed the code, the northern accent now no longer taken away from his voice. ' _Orca!_ Non me chiamar' tafone, ca-ca-ca-cafona.' Placing a large, gloved hand on his chin, the goon scratched it a little, before leading me to the big fish's lodgings, acting like a nervous wreck from start to finish.

* * *

'Mi, mi segui.'

I walked into the heart of the building. Where Antonio was waiting for me.

The escort knocks once, then lets me in, revealing more enforcers surrounding their leader. It was warmer inside, with books on display to my left, florescent night lights sliding between half-opened windows covered by aluminium blinds to my right. In the middle of the room, a man with a large frame sat down, signing some last remaining paper work.

His smile promised nothing good.

He greets me like an old friend, snuffing the used cigar out before offering his hand. I keep mine were I left them, deep in my spacious pockets. Antonio laughs it off, telling me my attitude reminded him of the good old days. "That's your killing hand isn't it? Ah, reminds me of my time at the main docks. I made more than a few heads turn there I can assure you, but like every old man, I made my time."

I made no attempt to shake hands with the arms dealer. Let him think it was because of that.

"So... Veleno? Venom? Your old name is not that important anymore, right? **Everyone** knows who you really are." The hulking old man moved his hands forward, making a mockery of a disappearing act with his arms. "The _Widow Maker_. Has a nice ring to it, does it not?"

He might not see another sunrise.

Quickly changing the subject, Antonio attempted a sardonic smile, his eyes revealing he had something sinister in mind.

"We can continue reminiscing about the past, but that's what not I brought you here. You see... I have a problem." Placing his fingertips together, Antonio pondered a little until I became interested.

Nodding lightly, I replied, looking up without making eye contact this time. "What kind of problem?"

My eyes did not meet Antonio's until a photo was placed on the table and pushed towards me with a single finger, the pinky ring on it reflecting the mobster's snickering smile.

"An overseas problem."

* * *

The Scandinavian underworld was no longer leaderless.

The Lindholms have officially took over the business.

Somehow, the vast underbelly of Sweden won the battle than mattered. Now, they have the northern flux of trade and drug extortion in their own hands, without middle men bargaining for them anymore. This was a big problem for Antonio and the Italian mafia, big time. They had relished in the chaotic disputes between the three main families of Sweden, Denmark and Finland. He was afraid the now commanding Swedes would 'forget' who were there for them when the Danes attempted to make an internal coup through politics.

He had lost good men in the staged terrorist attack too.

 _"Consider this as a reminder of what they owe to us. They cannot repay our kindness with a clenched fist."_

The dirty work is all in Antonio's hands. I am not a messenger. Not anymore.

All I was hired to do, is to observe the Ironbringer's closest link to the clean surface, monitor her movements, memorize her routines in campus.

And that's it. I already received half of what was promised to me, as an assuring deposit.

Nothing more. I am not an errand girl. This is not leg work.

My assignment should be here any minute. Expecting company, I hide behind the sturdy tree trunk, merging with the shade it created through weary wooden branches.

There she was.

My eyes widened a slighted bit. Head hung down a little, I felt myself going white.

I had to control the pulsing stain on my chest a brilliant doctor named Winston called the accelerator. The sight before me stunned hard. Hard enough to make me drop the cup of coffee I had held on the side, as I had waited for my target to arrive.

The stupid coffee fell onto my clothes and skin, leaving a burning sensation on my body. It was a miracle it did not land on the camera, made possible out of sheer reflexes.

She must not have seen it. The girl - woman - stood there, laughing at my misfortunate timing. She was carrying a hanging briefcase, with a sketchbook in hand. I saw too little to note what she was wearing. But her hair, gorgeous burning red hair, captured tints of the pale sun light perfectly illuminating fiery strands.

That was the first time we had met. And the last.

Every other time, there was a lens between us. And heavy, painful guilt.

Eventualy, Antonio's men will kidnap her. She is the only Lindholm who would pose no threat. That's what and why I was hired for, after all.

She did not know who I was. But I did.

Her name was Emily Lindholm Oats.

Emily Lindholm.

* * *

Emily.


	3. Dusk

**Dusk**

I was dropped down to the ground floor of Antonio's towering skyscraper, an annoying sound indicated I could leave the marble floored elevator, straining my head. Everything was marble floored. The elevator, the stairs, the roof. If I was a thief, I'd be going mad with how much noise my shoes are making by just walking. Hurrying the pace, I felt relief when I smelled nose clogging scents of fresh cement and saw polluted gases filling in the air. I felt I was suffocating a little in that tacky environment. All what was missing were skinny poodles with gold tinted fur and bright eye-popping white clashing with absolutely everything around it.

If this is what rich people do in their spare time then _no thank you_.

Keep your fancy, ginormous skyscrapers. **I'm** keeping **my** cut.

It was only until the lock was successfully turned I was hit forcefully by realisation, cutting through a thousand thoughts clouding my mind. Everything was set. My remaining payment was received, signed and taken. Bartalotti's men will strike in the park, where Red will pay a visit in exactly two hours. There was no reason to stay in this dug hole anymore.

She loved drawing. Red always had a peaceful expression whenever she did. Once she held the paper on a tree-bark in order not to disturb a squirrel. It had stayed frozen in position, clinging on the tree's branches.

You'd think it was posing for her, if it had the brains to do such a thing.

I hate that she knows how I look like, even though I now carefully make sure to always be out of sight. Before our first encounter, I never suffered from what people would call...

 _Butterfingers_.

It is useless crying over spilt coffee. But the memory still stung a little.

Now and then, it brought a small movement to the edges of my chapped lips. Then, I recall when her group of friends show up, every Mondays and Thursdays. She will be at the park again today. And she will have company expecting.

Expecting darkness, I enter the printing room, possibly for the last time.

Placing the exposed paper on the developing tray, I stopped to wonder what lead me in my life to this exact moment.

* * *

Amelie.

I was only a window cleaner. Fresh from rotting wooden desks, empty promises and apprenticeship. It was supposed to be a summer job.

Summer molded into winter. Winter turned slowly into spring. I stayed were I was.

So much for my degrees and all that **bullshit** hard work.

For all her fame and fortune, one person took pity on me through conversation, talking about everything and nothing as she waited for the lift to show up. I had no idea how famous she was.

She never told me _who_ she was. I never asked.

Until one night, through the circular patterns of the glass building, I watch two goons going for the dancing star who's name was on everyone's lips, thinking they were alone. They didn't shoot me only 'cause I wasn't seen. I ran too quick for them. Rushing like a madman to save her, I bump into my future boss. Tell him everything I saw, showed him which direction they took. He held me back, latching onto my elbow, but it wasn't his grip that stopped me.

There is no need to look for flatfoots, he told me. I stared back into the eyes of death.

I blinked first.

I did not see their corpses. Only a hand lying still against a fresh pool of oozing red liquid fallen on the marble floor.

A hand that did not belong to her.

The other escaped. To this day, I do not know who it was.

But it did not matter. Amelie was safe. The man whom I met before did not have one stain of incriminating evidence on his pristine, tailor made suit. I stared back into glass framed spectacles, noticing the small spray of blood coating the rim that was not there before.

I did not forget to breathe this time. And I did not blink.

I was hired on the spot.

* * *

Emily.

She had a future I could only dream of. University. A family who cares for her. A box full of memories she could call home.

And I was going to take that away from her.

I never learn. This is just a job. I take orders, I do them. Nothing different than punching the clock after eight hours of unfulfilling repetition.

Nothing different than before.

School. Killing. Now.

Nothing whatsoever.

Switching off the ringing timer, I grabbed the edges of the container, making it move back and forth. A new photo was coming to life.

She was wearing a scarf now. Red did not have it before. Throughout the rainy days of February, it is expected. She seemed to care for it alot. Perhaps it was of sentimental value.

After adjusting the contrast, I looked upwards, at the cheap bargain bin clock ticking the passage of time away. Only half an hour left. Even if I had second thoughts, I would not make it.

My job is done. I wanted my cut. I took it. Antonio upheld his end of the bargain.

Now it was time to hold mine.

It's over.

Minutes were turning into seconds.

In these seconds, I could've saved Amelie.

In these same seconds, dying and never coming back, I could save another person.

From my own mistakes.

* * *

My knee jerked against the steering wheel, one foot pressing hard onto the gas pedal, my other hand making the car spin and burning wheels scratch against the asphalt.

I will not make the same mistake again.

I will make it.


	4. Hope

**Hope**

She loved playing the piano. Amelie loved to compose music. Beautiful music, telling many stories through the simple, yet magnetic flow of her fingertips. Gerard used to be the first to hear the new scores, the one who always filled her laughter with blemishing light, always beholden by her side. That's what I likened to think to myself at first, to lessen the painful truth.

She was not just a highly accomplished ballerina, known around the whole globe. Amelie was beyond reach.

Class. Status. Fortune.

Love.

My heart still cries for you.

And yet... I can't remember how you look anymore.

What was the sound of your voice? Will you ever look at me the way I do?

How many regrets have you made behind the curtains? How many times did Gerard hold you?

I lay still, not receiving any answers back, as the piano remained empty, playing its notes on colourless keys, completely by themselves.

None of this makes sense. For you. And for me.

It was the pain. Rejection. Mockery of the mere idea of romance. A love that won't last.

The truth was... me. It was all in my head. Everyone was a little in love with you. I was not the only one.

Me being close to you did not matter. It never did. I was just doing my job. Whenever you looked at me, you smiled.

Whenever you looked at him, no sun could ever compare.

Like the moon that took you away, all I could do was stare, as you fell to your death without any hopes of salvation.

I only breathe because I'm afraid. Afraid of finding nothing at the other side.

Not even you.

* * *

Rain slapped across my face. Bitter, ice cold needles descended heavily from darkened skies, surrounding everything it could find.

I spent precious minutes searching for Red.

I leave my car behind, feeling a little dizzy in the head after all those drunken corners driven on the car pillared driveway, frantically looking all around where I stood. Red was not where she usually hanged out. Police sirens blared on the other side of the dirty dank road, three bums stood huddled together around a fire kept alive with street junk and rugged newspapers. My shadow ran behind my urgency, climbing up stairs without looking at the now familiar landmarks such as park statues or dust aged graffiti, their presence was saturated by the glow made from the burning barrels.

Hearing shouts and yells at the opposite direction, I take off, prepared for a fight.

What I was **not** prepared for, as I hid behind the rusting phone booth, was Red flooring the two bruising mooks with her two bare hands.

" _Oof-!_ What's she supposed to be the _docile_ Lindholm-?!"

Jamming another elbow into another mook's stomach, Red grabbed an abandoned crowbar from the cobblestone floor, her glare firing pain before it even landed. "Who sent you? Out with it!" Red's voice was more than confident, shattering all first impressions I held towards her. "Whoever you are, you're _not_ getting away with this!"

The two punch clock villains squirmed in defeat, pathetically holding onto their sides in agony, spitting blood and cobwebs out of their mouths.

Taking a deep breath, I step onto the stage, my hesitant walk turning into a tempestuous rush, wanting to take Red far away and keep her safe.

"H- _Hey!_ It's the Widow Maker! Help us, this woman's no pencil pusher! She's a Lindholm alright!"

The other pointed her finger furiously towards me, uncaring about my reputation. _"Where the hell where you? She's getting away!"_

That made Red stop, no longer looking at me with a gleam of happiness in her eyes. "Widow Maker...?" It made my stomach loop.

"You are-?"

Red never completed her sentence. From nowhere, a bullet lunged for the jugular, making her drop everything she carried down with her body, confusion and sadness fading from conscious. The bag she always carried spilled everything it held, leaving a mess made out of sketch paper and more in touch with the world gadgets, one hand laying lifelessly against overflowing red hair.

A pin drop could have been louder, as it was for the silent scream desperately wanted to be freed from the depths of my chest.

 **No.**

A lone figure kept pointing the cold barrel towards us, pistol smoke still visibly rising from the open end of the gun.

Rising from the ground, one of the mooks celebrated. "We got her!"

 **NO.**

The other retorted. "We weren't supposed to _kill_ her jackass!"

 **NO.**

This isn't happening! **Not again!**

Police sirens started blaring around us, wailing louder and louder until they died. The coppers could be on us at any minute.

Red ichor started bleeding out from the young woman's neck and mouth, a trail of red tracing a line down across the lifeless cheek. Emily's eyes remained wide open, a white mist glossing over the windows of her soul.

A sharp yell full of despair made me lurch forward, making me hold the edges of my head, feeling nothing but rage and sorrow on the inside.

"Ah, yes. _You_. I remember you."

Uncaring about the other two mooks looking sheepishly towards me, a sharp screechy sound met the middle of my temple, a cold barrel pointed too close. "Your boss should have killed me when he had the chance. It is unlike me to leave any business unfinished."

Looking up, I should've known. I came face-to-face with my second biggest regret.

Staring in the two differently coloured iris hinting an anisocoria condition, an evil smile wicked just like its owner, confidently grew upon a wrinkled face. Sulking over my motionless form, Emily's killer tsked towards her body's direction, mockingly complaining how easy this job turned out to be.

"This woman was the bait. Dead or alive, she will definitely helped us bring the Lindholm's out in the open. And guess _who_ will take the blame for _precious_ Emily Oats' death over here," The shadowy figure pressed the gun's muzzle further, her voice not needing to rise, having the barrel pointed at my head do the talking. "Antonio doesn't need you anymore... _as you are_."

A blast went through my skull, a loud rising noise starting to ring like two possessed bees. "Never liked babble mouths."

I felt nothing. Nothing but silence punctuated by the shock going through my body.

As I fell to the void of numbess, I was sure. I will not go where Emily is heading.

The last thing I saw before blacking out was the same gun that killed me, placed next to my broken face, as the rain cleansed the crime scene from all evidence that could pardon my name in postmortem.

If I raise my hand a little... I could have the illusion we were holding hands.

Her scarf was ruined now, soaked miserably into the mix of rain, blood and mud.

I regret the day I took the first picture.

I always screw everything up.

 _Red..._

No.

 _"Emily."_

* * *

Funny. Now in death, I can finally say her name.

* * *

Wait. That can't be. I'm dead. My head was burst wide open. How can I...?

Where _am I?_

Emily is not here. Of course she is not. She is in a better place. I am not. That is the stone cold truth.

The hole in my chest still burned, languishing torment woven where my heart should be.

For after death, there was no respite. Not for the people like me. We are all monsters disguised as killers.

I hear echoes of water murmur near my ears, above them.

Lifting my head upwards, I notice I can feel myself moving again, though it felt more like floating. I saw the sea meeting the sky, oceans above rippling back and forth in an infinite parallel dance, under the moonlit waves replacing the city outline I was more familiar with. It put me at peace.

And at the same time.

The scenery stretched a eerie sense of foreboding, leaving a deep impression into the lost pieces of my mind, making me wonder if I still had a pulse.

One note of music was pressed behind my ears. The composition that came after made me struggle to keep composure. The solemn tune continued, as I felt like a violin tarrying in the background, desperately trying to match the piano's strings, attempting in vain to lighten the dark brooding atmosphere.

Trepidation started building, making my clenched fists shake with an uncontrollable tremor.

I dared not turn.

"Cherie."

The voice I had lost to the seas was filled with insecurity, yet it was so clear with the piano's melody picking up, knowing it was done to give the man she adored and who worshipped her in return with incomparable strength.

It made me cry in silence, my head stayed hanging low, looking further away from the piano.

"What are you doing here? It is not your time yet."

The rhythm increased, making Amelie's hands imitate two possessed spiders dancing above the keynotes, the muse behind them having limitless control over her heart and soul, even in death. The final assault was when before my hands were balled into fists, they are now open, under my gaze.

Not once did the music overpower my thoughts.

I still had them. The dead cannot think.

My vision focused on the shadow of the illuminating spotlight, down-ridden doubts making my shoulders and spine feel exposed, weary and tired to the core.

It was only then I realised the spotlight was broken, but captured the rays of the moonlight whenever the terrestrial clouds disappeared.

"Am I to be stuck here forever...? Is this my punishment?"

 _For not saving you?_

"The Lena Oxton I knew would never say that." Amelie kept playing, the notes mellowing a little. "She would always find a way to find a solution."

Those words made me clench my fists again. "Whatever for? I'm _dead_. It's all over. I'm dead and gone and frankly, it's for the best."

I could swear, I heard a scoff coming from _Amelie Lacroix_. "So you let Antonio's assassin kill you? Just like that?"

"Yes. I did not have the guts to do it."

"But you could have saved Emily."

The mention of Red's name being heard from my first love's lips almost made me turn to finally face her after so many wasted years attempting to use alcohol to get rid of my past. "How do you-?"

"You never let me die, Cherie." She mirked through the timbers of her voice, turning the piano sounds into a faint murmurous. "I have always been here."

I paused and waited. I did not want to hear what had to be said next.

"You must leave this place. You cannot truly be alive until you let go. Let me die Lena. For the both of us."

I shook my head. "To replace you with another illusion? Emily does not know me. Hell, I don't even know her second name."

"You can always ask her." There is that playful tone I once adored. "Unlike me, you have the power within to change everything."

That statement made me pirouette suddenly towards the piano, facing an empty tool. The piano still kept playing on it's own.

"Amelie...?"

 _You have a gift, Cherie._

"Where are you...?!"

 _You have in possession what many philosophers and most people haunted by lost causes could only dream of._

 _A second chance._

"Please! I need to see you! **Just this once-!** "

 _You cannot save me._

 _But you can save her._

I couldn't take it anymore.

"How?! **I'M DEAD!** Me being dead does not change a thing! STOP GIVING ME HOPE! YOU'RE DEAD! I'M DEAD! **_THIS IS ALL USELESS-!"_**

Slamming my hands onto the piano's keys, it mattered not that it stopped playing. Not anymore.

The eerie silence that followed was expected. I whisper to myself, like a pathetic, dying cat purring to itself whilst the lullaby of death comes for an embrace.

"Go. Go away. This is all in my head. You all do. Everyone does."

I do not cry easily. But when I do, my one regret would be if anyone came to comfort me.

I'd only break down more.

If only I could go back in time. If only I could save her.

I wished to save both. But it was impossible. Amelie wishes to stay dead.

If I truly loved her, I need to respect her wishes.

Am I projecting my infatuation for Amelie on Emily?

No. I saw Re- _Emily_ fight those thugs. She knows how to make a man of respect kneel down with tearful knuckle eyes on his face.

Amelie does not know you need to fear the person behind the gun, not the gun itself.

So many days pass. Weeks. All without a purpose. And yet, I am afraid to look for one.

Insistent, suffocating doubts take over, mercilessly expecting me to obey their every word without any resistance.

I thought I had so with Amelie.

I loved Amelie.

I love Emily.

I... I do. I really do. I... did.

I did so.

If only there was a way. One way. One way to fix the mess that is my whole life.

If only...

 ** _If only...!_**

* * *

 _I ask but one thing from you, Cherie._

 _Je l'aimerai toujours. Avec tout mon coeur._

 _Tell this to Gerard. For me._

* * *

 ** _My heart was not mended to remain a defect-!_**

* * *

Like a train's shadow entering through the moonshaded arches of the ageless tunnels supporting it, I was there.

And the same time. I was not.

Behind me where images of myself, tracing every frame step by step in reverse, picking myself up from dying in the rivers of red, no longer drenched in blood.

Everywhere around me blurred into blinding lights of white, making me feel truly I was an avalanche without brakes.

For a few infinite seconds, I felt invincible.

The world around me started slowing down, my surroundings now becoming less of a blur, more of a place.

* * *

Rain slapped across my face. Bitter, ice cold needles descended heavily from darkened skies, surrounding everything it could find.

"Hey! Watch it Dick Tracy-! Your coat's on fire!"

The coat I always religiously wore was immediately doused by the heavy rain I knew would follow after a few minutes.

Pushing the coat's sleeve away from the decade old watch wrapped around my wrist, I instantly dashed towards Emily's location, now knowing with the blessings of hindsight where she was exactly. The sight of her being alive and well made me almost stop completely, but with that scarf still being untouched by the ground, I knew it was not the time to stay still and start bawling like an idiot.

She sighed heavily towards the sketchbook, placing it back in her bag. Emily must have really bonded with that squirrel.

Its too bad I don't know his location.

A set of fluttering and charming iris' glimmered with recognition when I finally approach Emily. _I swear it's not a delusion of mine_ , she started fixing her hair the second she laid her eyes on me.

"H-Hello!" Her voice was even lovelier without the strain of Antonio's thugs giving her trouble. "Long time no see~— _eee!_ —!"

Grabbing her loose hand, I made her run the opposite direction from where I came from.

That's where Moira came from too.

I could also swear I heard Emily say _oh this is a dream come true_ under her breath, but _that_ is probably **definitely** my delusion.

Whilst running, I look back. The two from before stayed gaping towards us. But I had to lunge forward, knowing it won't stay like that for long.

They left the bushes from they were hiding in a comical fashion. I would've laughed if I wasn't in a hurry.

"What the hell? That's our Intel! _I swear that's the Widow Maker!"_

The tanned one with much shorter hair was unfazed, grabbing the half broken crowbar lying on the floor.

 **"Wasn't she supposed to be on our side?!"**

"Widow Maker...?" Emily asked as we ran. Those words made my stomach loop, giving me a sense of deja vu. "You are-?"

No good came out of THAT conversion. "I'll explain later! Come on-!"

"Where?"

I wasn't there when it happened. Neither was Emily, thank William and Harry _almighty_.

But because of the time bending ability awakened through the power core installed in my heart's place (now do not ask me WHY, maybe Winston mistook me for the Doctor or something) I could hear the conversation anyway.

Behind them, the woman who manages to kill me in one timeline approaches, making the thugs point towards the last area where they saw us.

"Where did the targets go?"


End file.
